


the way ivy twines around an elm

by she_who_drank_vodka_with_cats



Series: steering towards the harbour [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Exes, Idiots in Love, M/M, Marriage, Mutual Masturbation, Weddings, actually no wedding, one ex being mean, one ex being nice, professor pankratz, university of oxenfurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:47:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23836372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/she_who_drank_vodka_with_cats/pseuds/she_who_drank_vodka_with_cats
Summary: Geralt and Jaskier are getting married! Or are they?They are in Oxenfurt, Jaskier's home turf, what could go wrong?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: steering towards the harbour [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717534
Comments: 8
Kudos: 69





	the way ivy twines around an elm

People tend to have a false feeling of security in big cities. They believe just because there are street lights in the night and guards at the gates that they are safe from evil creatures, when in fact monsters are drawn to the light and the noise. 

There are ghouls in the back alley behind the butcher’s shop, scavenging the old meat. Drowners live in the sewers, making it a dangerous place for adventurous children to play in. 

If someone disappears, the anonymity of the city keeps word from spreading far. Maybe the person left without saying goodbye, maybe they got in a drunken brawl and didn’t survive the outcome and most of the time the dead bodies that  _ are _ found belong to some vagabond or beggar who won’t be missed anyway. 

The possibility to die by a monster in an urban area wasn’t smaller than in the country, it just wasn’t as prominent. And don’t let the witcher start on the monsters of the human kind that accumulate in a city like Oxenfurt. 

In the cluster of horseshit that is the world, cities are simply the bigger piles. 

Yet here he was, walking through the morning's busy streets filled with vendors, tourists and students, that frequented the oldest market of Oxenfurt, simply because Jaskier wanted to do so. Geralt holds a steady hand to his bard's lower back and steers him through the crowd, keeping a safe distance from drain covers until Jaskier’s eyes get caught on a merchant’s display of the finest fabrics 

He stops to feel the texture of just about every cloth, while Geralt glares intimidatingly at the vendor, just in case his partner wants to buy something and they have to negotiate the price.

His glowering loses its effectiveness when Jaskier holds a midnight blue swatch up against his chest.

“What a nice contrast, I’m thinking a single-breasted coat for formal events.”

“No,” Geralt promptly interrupts Jaskier’s musing. 

“ _ No _ as in  _ I’d prefer a dress shirt _ or  _ no _ as in _ not this colour _ ?”

“ _ No _ as in  _ I don’t need new clothes _ ,” the witcher stresses. 

With a huff, the bard puts the blue pattern down and picks up a yellow one. It’s held up next to Geralt’s face to compare the colour with his eyes. 

“Jaskier, no,” Geralt snaps. 

“It’s not for you, it’s for me,” Jaskier insists and drops the cloth onto the display. “It’s the wrong shade anyway.” 

The witcher presses his lips together in remorse. His lover wants to dress himself in colours that represent his devotion and Geralt’s first instinct is to refuse him. Sometimes he still doesn’t understand how they managed to get this far in their relationship. 

He is pulled out of the depth of his bad consciousness by Jaskier’s irate exclamation.

The younger man chose another pattern, but before he could pick it up, it was snitched from beneath his fingers. He looks to his side, already taking a deep breath to berate the other customer, when his mouth suddenly slams shut and his eyes go wide in recognition. 

Geralt watches with growing concern the way Jaskier’s eyes narrow as he studies the well dressed man holding the swatch hostage. If things come to a head, he is ready to throw his favourite idiot over his shoulder and make haste instead of letting him start a fight over some overpriced fabric. 

Instead of lashing out, Jaskier takes a calculating step back and gives the other man a cold greeting. 

“Valdo Marx,” he sniffs down at the smaller man.

The distaste in his voice is easy to discern, yet his rival smiles with bleached teeth.

“Jas,” he coos like a child might over a kitten. “Fancy running into you here. I thought you were singing for a few coppers in front of pissdrunk peasants in some provincial backwater tavern.”

He leans to the side to look past Jaskier and stage whispers at Geralt.

“It’s easier to impress your audience if they never heard real music before.” 

“I didn’t hear them sing any of your songs in those backwater taverns. Oh wait,” Jaskier bemoans comically with a finger to his chin. “Neither did I hear any of your songs in the city.”

“That is because I only play at court, I don’t want my creations to roam the streets like common whores. Besides, between my obligations in Cidaris and my position at the university, I sadly haven't much time to fool around.” 

“You know what they say,” Jaskier fervently nods in agreement. “He who can, does. He who cannot, teaches. I, for one, made an exception for the rector. He asked me personally to hold a guest lecture today, show the students how to become successful in the field of the arts instead of staying stuck with the theory, and as an alumni of Oxenfurt I just couldn’t deny his request.” 

Valdo holds the swatch in the crook of his arm to clap his hands in front of his chest in a quick pace, but the small applause makes barely any sound. 

“And I am so excited to attend it. We all need a pause from constant professionalism now and then. But where are my manners,” he cocks his head, his black curls bounce with the movement, and studys Geralt with sharp eyes. “I am Valdo Marx, Jas probably mentioned me before. And you can’t be anyone but his muse, the white wolf himself.” 

“Your name has indeed been mentioned,” Geralt says in the polite tone he uses with all unknown humans. He certainly remembers the time Jaskier had wished upon a djinn to kill the rival bard. “It’s good to have a face to the name. I’m Geralt Pankratz.” 

“Pankratz?” Valdo’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “I am so sorry, I had no idea you are a taken man, Jas, otherwise I wouldn’t have flirted." He pointedly looks down at Jaskier's ringless finger. " _ Married _ to a witcher, how beneficent and brave. That's what I always admired you for, you just never cared about people's opinions."

"And it made me quite happy thus far.” Jaskier takes Geralt’s hand and squeezes it reassuringly. “You must excuse us, I would love to reminisce, but we have to, uh,” he looks at Geralt, a silent plea for help in his eyes.

“Go somewhere else,” Geralt finishes lamely. 

“Exactly that,” the bard agrees forcefully and pulls the witcher away by their joined hands, not waiting for Valdo to say his own goodbyes. 

In his haste to leave his rival behind, he walks straight into a not so young anymore flower girl, who startles and drops her basket, her goods spilling onto the ground.    
Jaskier is quick to apologize and helps her to gather the small bouquets before they get trampled by the passing crowd. 

Gruntling over his love’s clumsiness, Geralt bends down and assists them. The overly sweet smell of lavender, lilacs and hyacinths assaults his nostrils and he hurries to fill the basket and send her on her way. 

With a guilty face, Jaskier holds up a sad looking bundle of squashed flowers and, apologizing once more, pays for the damaged product.

The flower girl gives her thanks as they rise and bestows Jaskier with a coy smile.

Standing upright again, Geralt suddenly feels his wolf pendant, finally swinging back to rest against his chest, vibrating gently. He grabs his love’s wrist in an instant to warn him about the unknown danger, but as quick as the woman has appeared, she vanishes into the crowd, and with her the vibrations of his medaillon are gone.

“You okay?” Jaskier asks concerned at seeing the witcher’s anxious face. It was hard to keep it apart from Geralt’s expression of annoyance, but the bard was practiced enough to know the difference.

Holding a hand over his pendant to make sure to feel every little movement, he inspects the crushed flowers Jaskier has bought, butterflyweed and cowslip surrounding a crooked torch lily. Luckily, he can't detect any kind of magic upon the plants. 

Nevertheless, he feels the need to be cautious. 

"That woman emitted magic, it could be on the flowers, too."

"Could be?" Jaskier questioned and scrutinizes the bouquet with pursed lips. "Will one blossom contain enough magic to cause trouble?" 

With a small shake of his head, Geralt picks one yellow flower out of the bunch and pins it through the buttonhole on his shirt. 

His lover's beaming smile is bright enough to cast away any shadow of doubt about the possibly stupid action. 

Jaskier takes his hand again, gazing lovingly at the witcher, before he looks past him and his face turns into a grimace. 

"We need to move, I can still see the obnoxious colour of Valdo's cap."

They cross the whole market before Jaskier deems it safe enough to stop next to a vendor with various luxury items and immediately begins to rail against Valdo Marx's dreadful manners. 

“Can you believe him? Pretending that he doesn’t know we're in a relationship when all of Oxenfurt's been gossiping about nothing else since we arrived."

Grunting in answer, Geralt looks over the sparkling rings and necklaces, the gold encrusted plates and goblets. Everything is either engraved with delicate floral patterns or decorated with colourful rhinestones. It doesn't take an expert to notice that all the glitz is superficial and nothing of real value is sold, even though the prices are high enough to indicate a quality that isn't there. 

"And the teasing," Jaskier continues his tirade, throwing his arms out and nearly hitting other passing customers. "After everything that happened between us, he flirts with me right in front of you, trying to win me back!" 

Geralt frowns and gives Jaskier disbelieving sideway glance. 

"As if I am not in a happily committed relationship," the bard continues unfazed.

With an amused huff, Geralt picks up a small dagger for closer inspection. It’s highly polished, the steel glistening in the early morning sun, but the blade is blunt and the fake jewels adorning the handle prohibit a good grip on the weapon. 

“Pretty!” Jaskier pipes up next to him. 

“But useless,” Geralt concludes and puts the dagger back.

“Right, we can’t have that. There is only enough space for one pretty, yet useless thing in your life.”

“That would be?” 

Jaskier holds up his palms as if the answer was obvious. “Me.” 

“You’re not useless,” Geralt is quick to correct him.

“Aw, thank you, my love,” Jaskier swoons, practically melting on the spot and leaning heavily on the witcher’s shoulder. “I think that’s the nicest thing you ever said to me.”

Looking down at the bard’s fluttering eyelashes, Geralt tries his best to keep his face neutral.

“But you’re not pretty, either.”

The effect is prompt and he sways with the force of Jaskier’s hard shove against his shoulder. 

“I’d like to see if the dagger is really that useless,” his love threatens, but before he gets a hold on the weapon, he is distracted by a matching pair of rings. 

"Oh, these look good," he proclaims with a high lilt and holds them up for Geralt to see, who already has made up his opinion about the trinkets. 

"That's not real silver, just a simple alloy."

"And therefore not useful, gotcha. Melitele beware that you ever own something just for the pleasure of looking at it," Jaskier mumbles as he returns the rings to their former place, fully aware that Geralt's extraordinary hearing would still catch his words. 

"I don't buy something to simply look at it. You don't pay a whore to behold her beauty from a distance."

"You are such a barbarian," Jaskier glowers at his husband without any heat in his eyes. "I am glad that you will finally see the inside of a lecture hall, maybe you can learn something about civilized culture and art." 

Geralt closes his eyes for longer than a blink, just to conceal rolling them. 

"You already read the whole lecture for me and I still believe that using an embracing rhyme for a love ballade isn't very innovative."

"It is when you write about rediscovering love! It is the same, yet it feels different," the bard keeps accounting for his poetry. "The accentuated metrics change and dissociate the heartbreak from new found love." 

"Be that as it may,  _ taedh _ still doesn't rhyme with  _ tearth _ ," Geralt shrugs, secretly enjoying riling Jaskier up about his greatest passion. 

"It's an orphan and you know it!" his lover shouts as expected and points an accusing finger at him. "I told you that it reflects the protagonist's loneliness. It's really in everyone's best interest that you hear the lecture again. Especially now that we know that Valdo will be there, trying to seduce me with his intellect." 

The witcher gives a long suffering sigh and presses his hand to the bard's lower back to urge him into walking. 

"Keep dawdling and we will both miss it. I wanted to buy some apples for Roach before we go back to the campus." 

"But not the overly sweet variety," Jaskier admonishes him. "They are bad for her teeth." 

"Of course not," Geralt agrees easily and leads his husband through the bustling shoppers. 

A respectful hush lingers over the lecture hall, only interrupted by the rustling of paper or the occasional cough. Professor Pankratz's authoritative voice fills the room with a constant flow of information, now and then swerving from the topic of his poetry to tell an anecdote about the circumstances that inspired his songs and poems. 

Most of his stories include Geralt's experiences as a witcher and many heads turn not so stealthily to the back of the room to behold the infamous protagonist of Jaskier's most famous song. Even more heads turn when the bard reminisces about the night that inspired one of his raunchier song texts. Though giving names is avoided, the mention of _ lips tasting as sweet as honey coloured eyes look _ is easy enough to interpret. 

Despite those few moments of discomfort, during which Geralt simply steels his gaze and meets the student's prying eyes dead on, he feels rather lucky to be able to watch his love in a setting he has been trained for. Jaskier teaches with a confidence that is intimidating and awe-inspiring at once and the witcher fears that he is quickly loosening his long nursed reputation of being a cold-blooded monster hunter by wearing that awfully besotted look on his face. 

The students are encouraged to ask questions, inquiries for personal information is swiftly sidestepped whereas the need for better comprehension of the substance is patiently fulfilled . 

Most of the questions come from Valdo Marx, who sits placidly laid back in the front row, trying to outface Jaskier. Geralt would like to wipe that smug smile from his face, but except from being an annoying little shit, the disliked bard does nothing to provoke such action. 

They discuss the use of elder speech in poems when Valdo calls attention to himself once more. 

Wearing a polite smile, Professor Pankratz motions for him to speak, but Geralt knows from the strain around Jaskier's eyes, that he is pretty fed up with the stupid questions. 

"I know that the most accredited scholars agree that there isn't a specific way in which elder speech is pronounced, therefore I would like to know how you would vocalize  _ taedh _ and  _ tearth  _ in a way that rhymes." 

Geralt can hear Jaskier's teeth grinding all the way in the back of the room. 

"Maybe one of our  _ smart _ students has the right answer to this?" he passes the request along to the class. 

Clearing his throat, Geralt tries to catch the attention of the young student sitting in front of him. The young man seems rather startled to be approached by the witcher, which prompts Geralt to smooth out the frown on his face, before he whispers to him. 

"It's an orphan, it stands for loneliness." 

Instead of putting his hand up, the student stares at him with big eyes and Geralt has to put the frown back and nod to the front, before he finally complies. 

"It is not supposed to rhyme. The orphan verse resembles the protagonist's loneliness after having lost his first love," he answers uncertainly after the professor picked him. 

"Correct," Jaskier beams at the wannabe poet. "It seems like there is hope for some of you after all." 

The student preens himself under the professor's attention, even though he didn't come up with the answer himself. 

Geralt's decides to not be bothered by Oxenfurt's rising young schmucks. Instead he focuses his concentration on the smug idiot in the front that had wiggled his way into the witcher's heart, when he suddenly feels the energy of close by magic thrumming through his wolf pendant for a second time that day. 

Throwing his head around, he searches the room until he notices the older flower girl from this morning silently standing in the doorway. She meets his eye, raises a bushy brow at him and then slowly walks out of sight. 

The witcher stands swiftly and signs at Jaskier, who had thrown him a worried look after seeing him rising, to continue with the lecture, before quietly following the strange woman. 

The pursuit isn't very long, for she is standing right outside of the lecture hall, casually leaning over the balustrade and looking over the university's park-like courtyard. 

"Look at these little shits," she says with a brittle voice. 

Geralt moves closer, his pendant vibrating notably against his chest, to look down upon Oxenfurt's finest himself. People walked along the gravel pathway to their next classes, some relaxed on benches in the shadows of the trees, while others were in a heated discussion about correct use of the word  _ aen.  _

"They think they're so special because they study at a nice university, when the only reason they are here is their parent's money. Money makes the world go round, money holds the power. But this power doesn't come from themselves. It is given to them and it can be taken away again." 

"Are you still so fond of your grudges, Yenn?" 

The old looking woman laughs with a clear voice and winks her purple eyes at him. 

"Are those little shits as careless in bed as they are in life? Tell me, Geralt. I heard you fucked one of Oxenfurt's beloved strivers."

He growls at her, which increases her amusement and she lets her glamour fall from her appearance, grinning at him with that beautiful smile of hers. 

"You're in a more mellow mood than usual. I guess the bard's most prominent trait in bed is his creativity." 

Geralt huffs and allows the smile settle on his lips. 

"What are you doing in this city? Did you find some little shit whom you can disburden from his worldly powers?" 

"I was passing Cidaris when I came upon a new client. Good-looking, rich family and full of himself. He promised me a small fortune in exchange for a simple spell."

The clang from the bell tower drowns out her next words and a moment later students pour out of the lecture halls. Distracted by the sudden tumult, Geralt diverts his gaze for the break of a second, yet when he turns back to Yennefer, she already wears another glamour, her complexion that of a young, well-fed blonde. 

He waits to state his question until the biggest rush is over. 

"Did you cast a spell upon the flowers?" 

Grey eyes look pointedly at the wilting blossom attached to his dark shirt. 

"Not that one. But there was an enchanted bouquet that was meant for a targeted individual." 

They are disrupted once more as Jaskier comes storming out of the lecture hall, his face a rampant menace, closely followed by none other than Valdo Marx. 

"That is ridiculous, Brandon of Oxenfurt did not establish the Oxenfurt Chess Club. That society is older than he is!" Jaskier argues passionately, his limbs flying in every direction. 

Valdo's calm demeanour appears to be a delicate act in comparison. He slightly bounces on his feet, causing the black curls around his face to sway with the movement. His goatee twitches beneath his screwed grin and he brandished a leather bag in front of him, which Geralt immediately recognizes. 

"And how old, pray tell me, is Brandon?" 

Before Jaskier can continue to be part of the other bard's ludicrous mind games, Geralt steps forward with an outstretched hand. He tries not to use his height to his advantage, but it is hard not to tower over the other man when he barely reaches his chin.

The defiant smile stays on Valdo’s lips, while his eyes carry a biting cold that would probably chill the bone of people who have never seen things as scary as the witcher has. 

Finally, the troubadour relents, but instead of waiting for Geralt to take it, he holds out the bag’s strap over Geralt’s extended arm and just lets it drop. The weight of the books and papers, which Jaskier had gathered for the lecture in the library, so suddenly falling onto his forearm would have overbeared a human, but with the strength of a witcher, Geralt locked his muscles and his arm barely moved an inch. 

“Thanks,” he says without emotion and pulls the strap over his shoulder.

“My pleasure,” Valdo croons and winks at Jaskier. “We will have to continue our merry chat when you’re not under your chaperon’s watchful eye. Until then, Jas!” 

He turns on his heel like a dancer might during a performance and walks away with swaying hips. 

Geralt watches him descending the stairs, the furrow between his brow deepening, until Jaskier spats at him.

“Where did you go? I just had to repel Valdo all by myself even though you promised you’d support me during the lecture, but the moment he actually tries to corner me, you aren’t there.” 

He looks over to the young woman lazily longing against the balustrade. 

“What was so important that you had to - fuck a fleder!”, he cries out startled when in a blink of an eye Yennefer sheds her disguise. “Where the fuck does  _ she  _ come from?”

“Calm down,” she drones out. “I am here as a friend.” 

Jaskier hold out his palms in disbelief.

“A friend? You’re always either a temptation, a nuisance or a threat.” 

“Jaskier!” Geralt barks indignantly at the same time as the sorceress chuckles. 

“You say the nicest things.”

“So, while I have been fighting off my previous lover’s advances, you were being buddy-buddy with yours?” Jaskier squawks, his waving hands encompassing the two.

“I’m just here to inform you, that the spell was meant for Jaskier, but because I am such a good friend,” she pointedly scowls at the bard. “I didn’t give you the enchanted bouquet.” 

“What kind of spell. And who’s your client?” Geralt demands to know. His whole body is rigid with worry at the thought that someone wishes harm upon Jaskier. Well, he knows there are people who would gladly strangle the bard, but none of them have ever been a big enough risk to be of concern. 

Yenn shakes her head with a rueful smile. 

“I can’t disclose a contract’s subjects just like that, it’s all confidential.”

“That is such bullshit,” Jaskier comments, his eyes squeezed close and his head thrown back. 

“I won’t leave behind a trail of betrayed customers just to get stabbed in the back during a careless moment,” she vindicates her decision with a snarl. “I warned you and now I'm gonna tell my client that a strong charm which my spell can't get through is guarding Jaskier. By tomorrow, I will leave this reeking city without my pay."

Having shared what she wants to let them know, she turns to leave, but Geralt stops her with a hand around her wrist. 

“Thank you, Yenn,” he mumbles, his gaze fixed on her expressional eyes, trying to convey his sincere gratitude.

“You’re welcome,” she answers with a soft smile that turns sharp as she looks over at Jaskier, who is silently fuming in the back. 

Deliberate steps have her standing right in front of him in a moments notice and before one of the two men can even react, she holds the bard’s head firmly between her hands and kisses him soundly. 

Geralt is frozen in place, his mind switching between the two possibilities of this whole scenario being either a dream or a nightmare. 

When Yennefer pulls back, he can find the same thoughts on Jaskier’s shocked face.

“Now you both have kissed me. There’s no more need for jealousy,” she hums as she pats his cheek and then lets go of him. 

His slowly respawning brain causes Jaskier to stutter the first thing he can think off.

“You did a little more than kiss.”

“Is that a proposition?” Yenn winks, but before the bard’s face can turn even redder, Geralt bursts out his dismissal. 

“No!”

“Your loss,” she shrugs, waves her fingers at the pair, her hair lightening as she dons a new glamour, and leaves.

Jaskier watches her go with a disbelieving look on his face.

“I mean, I knew what you see in her, but now I  _ know  _ what you see in her.” 

He licks his lipstick smeared lips, then blows a sharp whistle, earning himself one of Geralt’s judging glares. 

“Oh, don’t give me that look. Let’s call it even, I am angry at you for leaving and you are angry at me for enjoying kissing Yennefer.”

“I am not angry at you,” Geralt insists, his fist tightening around the strap of the bag on his shoulder. “This isn’t your fault.” 

Smacking his lips, the bard stems his hands on his hips.

“Great, then I’ll have your apology now and we’ll be fine.”

“I left to investigate a potential threat, which turns out to have been the right thing to do since we now know that there  _ is  _ someone who wants to harm you,” the witcher presses through his teeth.

Jaskier deflates with fluidly falling lax limbs, but then points a prancing finger at his partner.

“I hate it when you’re making sense and just out of spite, I’m gonna stew in my miscellaneous emotions for the rest of the day.” He darts forward and presses a quick kiss to Geralt’s lips, leaving the slightest trace of dark lipstick behind. “Really, my love, this was a mad rush of emotions. It must be my frailed nerves, I am excitedly looking forward to tomorrow,” he rushes out as he links his arm with Geralt’s and starts leading him through Oxenfurt university's halls towards their shared room. “I can’t wait until everything is cut and dried and we can leave this city behind.” 

"Likewise," Geralt agrees. "But won't you miss it?" 

"You mean all the exciting drama, friends and foes herd together and young aspiring students hanging on my lips to figure out how they can dethrone me? Of course I will miss it." He sighs deeply, his faraway look telling of a pleasant melancholy. "But I also miss singing drunken duets with Valdo, which doesn't mean that I want those days back, since I have found something much better. No amount of flirtatious teasing could ever attract me away from what we have." 

The witcher snorts and rolls his eyes. 

"I finally understand why you didn't leave me be after I punched you that first day in Posada. Valdo Marx isn't flirting, he is antagonising you. I don't know why you don't see it, you have charged at people for lesser insults." 

"Insults  _ are _ his way of flirting, he is pulling my pigtails."

"Keep blowing your own horn," Geralt resigns with a shake of his head. 

"Nah, that's what I've got you for." 

Jaskier lets go of his arm to throw his own over Geralt's shoulder, squeezing him a little in the half embrace. 

Geralt in turn ducks his head and growls through the strands of hair falling into his face at two passing students, who snicker at  _ the schmoochy picture that Professor Pankratz and his witcher make _ . 

After a day of walking through what feels like every street of Oxenfurt, Geralt is glad to step into their bedroom and find a barrel full of fresh water already waiting for them. 

They visited all of Jaskier's favourite places, ate at what's in Jaskier's tasteful opinion the best tavern in town and had a few drinks on the house while the bard stomped on the table and belt out the tawdriest songs in his repertoire. 

Now it is late and Geralt is tired. Not in his resilient body of a witcher, but in his mind. He had experienced so much today in this city, that he missed the peace and quiet of a lonely road. 

While Jaskier falls fully clothed and face down onto their bed, Geralt undresses and signs Igni to heat the water and light some candles. 

"Hm?" he inquires after Jaskier mumbles unintelligibly into the mattress. 

The bard turns his head to the side and repeats himself with a whine. 

"I said I want to go first!" 

"Tough luck," the witcher comments without pity and steps into the bath. "I'm already inside and you're not even undressed. Besides, you always go first, it's my turn tonight." 

“That is because you’re always covered in monster goo and soil the water too much to use it again.” He flops graceless onto his back and peers at the naked man cramming himself into the low barrel. “Let’s compromise, I’ll join you.”

“No, you’ll wait. There is barely enough room for me alone.” 

Indeed is Geralt sitting with his legs pulled up and his knees jutting out of the water. He reaches for the plain soap, the cheap one that doesn’t overwhelm his senses with a too strong fragrance, and efficiently begins to wash himself in the uncomfortable position. 

“Alright, but make it quick. I am too tired to stay awake much longer,” Jaskier groans and his face splits into a broad yawn.

As if in trance, he slowly removes all of his clothes without getting of the bed, piling everything up in a cluster of dirty laundry on the floor. He only moves off the comfy mattress when Geralt asks him to wash his back. 

It took a long time for the witcher to not only accept Jaskier’s help, but to even ask for it. By now, cleaning each other has become such a habit, that he doesn’t have to quarrel with himself about requesting this simple task that he feels he should be able to accomplish on his own. 

Jaskier would never taint Geralt’s progress of allowing people to support him by refusing him such a small favour, therefore he fights his exhausted body into standing and walks over to the small tub to tenderly scrub his love’s back and neck. 

When every part is clean and he has already lingered longer than necessary on rubbing knots out of the witcher's always so tense shoulder muscles, he pats his back and motions for them to switch. 

Geralt cleans Jaskier's back as thorough as his own body, but he uses less pressure to not irritate the more sensible human skin. 

"Thanks," Jaskier sighs as he leans back. "I can manage the rest. 

Geralt grunts his agreement and hands him the soap, then dries himself of and combs his fingers through his tangled up hair. 

Before finally lying down, he goes to the dresser where he knows Jaskier had stored his favoured scented soap to wash his hair with and leaves it on the floor within the bard's easy reach. 

He's found a comfortable position beneath the covers, when the earthy smell of musk and pine trees reaches his nose, a small reminder of the wild waiting behind the city walls, and he decides to fight off sleep a little longer, so that he can drift off with his husband in his arms. 

It's easy for him to follow Jaskier's actions by sound alone, therefore he knows when the bard has rinsed off his hair and completed his bath. Yet instead of the sound of the man getting out of the tub, there is the occasional soft splashing of water, that builds up a stronger rhythm with every passing minute. 

Curious, Geralt leans up onto his elbows and looks towards the tub. 

"What are you doing?" 

"None of your concern, but," Jaskier breathes with a strain in his voice. "I'm worshipping Huldra." 

The realisation of what Jaskier is up to hits Geralt like a brick to the head that then drops into his lap and leaves a pleasantly heavy weight in his groin. He doesn't feel so tired anymore. 

"You could come to bed and we could worship the deity of lust together." 

"No need, you just go back to sleep. After all, you didn't pay to use this pretty thing," Jaskier purrs, the amusement palpable in his voice. 

He swings one wet leg over the edge of the bathtub, water puddling on the stone tiles, and lets his other hand join the first below the water surface. This one reaches even deeper than the first. 

Geralt sits back against the headboard, his arms crossed over his chest, and is ready to grudgingly wait this out. He knows how easily the bard can get bored with his own predictable motions and sooner or later he will ask for the witcher's assistance. 

But as he glares at Jaskier's well known face slack with pleasure, he realises that he never took the time to simply watch. 

He saw his lover naked more times than he could count, even before they had started sleeping with each other, they were never shy of showing their bodies while skinny dipping in a river or sleeping nude during a heat wave. During sex, Geralt has mapped out every inch of Jaskier. No patch of skin left unkissed, no birthmark not discovered and registered to Geralt's long list of things he loved about the man. When they are entwined and he tries to show all the love he feels but has problems to articulate by giving Jaskier as much pleasure as possible, he always observes which action elicits the greatest reaction. 

Right now, there is no need for him to concentrate on the path his fingers take or control the force of his rocking hips. All he has to do is lean back, enjoy the sight of his lover's body coiling up with every passionate stroke of his own hands and immerge into the soft sounds that fall from Jaskier's parted lips. 

He kicks off the covers and takes himself in his hand, while his eyes devour the golden glow of Jaskier's form in the flickering candle light. Water droplets run down the poet's strong calve and gather around the foot that is braced on the ground to support the fluid movements of his hips. Small waves splash around the tub and break against the wooden rim with every twitch of his muscles, restless energy thrumming beneath his skin as he chases his pleasure. The whines escaping his throat turn more urgent and he squeezes his eyes shut, his mind lost in the exquisite feeling. 

Geralt adjusts the speed of his hand to the rise and fall of Jaskier's chest, the water clinging to the coarse hairs there glimmers in the low light like jewels resting on a wealthy dame's bosom. He tightens his grip and emits a grunt at the marvelous pressure on his most sensitive parts. 

The involuntary sound doesn't escape Jaskier's acute ear. In his haze of his sexual rapture, he blinks his eyes open and gazes at his witcher. 

Geralt's breath catches in his throat as blue eyes, dark as the sea during a storm and glistening with gathered tears of oversensitivity, lock with his own. 

"You're beautiful," he can't help but breathe out. 

Despite the sound of the sloshing water and the desperate moans, Jaskier seems to have catched the softly whispered confession. He throws his head back over the tub's rim, his wet hair plastered in strands to his forehead, and groans like a wounded man. 

"More," he gasps and the whole bath quakes with the pulsing of his hips. "Please, my love, more." 

Letting his eyes wander along Jaskier's carelessly presented throat, Geralt wishes he could nibble along the sensitive skin, lick over his Adam's apple and feel the scrape of the stubble, put his lips over his pulse and suck. 

Desperately turned on, he can't deny his lover's modest request. He searches through the delicate fog in his head and pants out the first things that cross his thoughts. 

"You're perfect like this. So vulnerable and beautiful for me, just for me to see. Mine, mine alone."

"Yours," Jaskier affirms with a whimper and a possessiveness rumbles deep within the witcher's chest, surrounds his heart and squeezes. 

"I love you," he grunts, the words flowing out of his mouth as naturally as water from a well. "I fucking love you." 

"Geralt," Jaskier utters with his next cry, drawn out and high pitched, and his back bends in ecstacy, before he plunges back into the water, his limbs lax and motionless. 

At the sight of his lover convulsing from his overpowering orgasm, Geralt finds his own high and plummets over the apex of lust, painting his belly with glistening white stripes. 

For a moment, all he can hear is his racing heartbeat and his own laboured breath, until Jaskier, never one for long silence, pipes up. 

"How much did she make?" 

Not comprehending the odd question, Geralt looks over at the bard. 

The man has an arm thrown over his face, but otherwise doesn't move in his spot. 

He shares his bewilderment with a grunt as he rises from the bed and walks over to the tub. 

"The whore that you paid to look at but not touch," Jaskier explains slowly and removes his arm from his eyes to watch Geralt wetting a cloth and cleaning the cum off his skin. 

The witcher huffs at the queer request, but doesn't have to think long to give his answer. 

"Not even a dime. Now, get out of the water before you catch a cold." 

Standing up and letting himself be wrapped in a towel, Jaskier squeaks his protest. 

"You can't deny having enjoyed the show, yet my performance wasn't worth a thing?" 

Finished with rubbing dry his lover's skin, Geralt throws the towel over Jaskier's head and tousles it through his hair. 

"You can't weight the best things in life with gold."

"I object," came the muffled reply from below the cloth. 

Geralt pulls the towel down over the back of the bard's head and lets it hang from his shoulders, keeping his grip on the two bundled up ends in the front. Trapped this way, Jaskier can only return his witcher's fond look. 

"I said I don't  _ pay _ for things for simply being pretty. Doesn't mean I can't enjoy the invaluable beauty of a sunset."

He pulls on the towel, dragging the other man forward to meet his lips in a short peck, then steps away to slip into bed again. 

Jaskier hurries to follow him and falls heavily onto the mattress next to him. The younger man rolls over to rest his head on Geralt's chest, who immediately lays his arms around him and holds him closer. 

After a few minutes of calm breathing and gentle strokes over bath warmed skin, Geralt is about to fall asleep, when Jaskier starts humming  _ In Battle, In Bed And In Love,  _ letting the witcher know that he is listening to his heartbeat. 

"I hate that song," he grumbles tiredly. 

"You don't," Jaskier smiles into his chest hair. "I saw you nodding along at the tavern tonight."

"Slander," Geralt murmurs, kisses the top of Jaskier's head and lets sleep take over. 

They're up too early the next morning and make their way towards the guildhall. 

Jaskier is dressed in a new yellow doublet, accented with golden stitches, and fitting trousers. He looks as bright and happy as a sunflower. 

Geralt wears a clean shirt and has combed his hair. The bard had offered to braid it, but he had slapped his fingers away before they were even close to the white strands. 

They have an appointment and don't have to wait too long until they can enter the bureau. 

A bald and stout man behind a big desk mentions for them to sit. He writes into a leather-bound book, the quill clinking against the glass whenever he goes back to the little jar to get more ink. 

"Would you like me to recount the proceedings?" he asks with a warm smile after he finishes his notes. 

"Vows, signatures, marriage," Jaskier rattles down, practically vibrating in his seat. Geralt lays a supportive hand on his knee in hope of calming him down. 

The registrar chuckles and clucks his tongue in good humor. 

"There is a little more to it. Let's start with the bureaucratic part. Please state your name, habitual abode and time of birth."

"Viscount Julian Alfred Pankratz de Lettenhove, Oxenfurt, the forty second day of spring in 1222."

The quill scratches quickly over the paper, but the old man still has problems to keep up with the bard's dashing tongue. He has to ask him to repeat himself twice, before he has everything marked down. 

Suppressing his own nerves, Geralt gives out his information slow and comprehensible. 

"Geralt of Rivia. Kaer Morhen. Around 1160."

The man looks at him sceptically. 

"Don't you have a more specific date?" 

"That's all I have." 

He studies the witcher for a second, then shrugs and continues scribbling into the big book. 

"One can only hope to look as good as you when reaching your age," he prattles politely. "But alas, it is already too late for me. I'll just list your date of birth as the first day of 1160. Look at that, now you are a child of change." He winks at Geralt conspirationaly. "Will there be a change of name with the wedding?" 

"Yes," Jaskier exclaims and nods his head fiercely. "We will both bear the name Pankratz."

With a single raised eyebrow, the registrar looks over at Geralt, who lifts one corner of his mouth and bends his head in agreement. 

Silently forming the name in his mouth and making a strange face at the feel of it, he notes down the change, then puts the pen aside and folds his hands on top of the table. 

"I gathered you would like to say your own vows?" 

"Yes!" Jaskier nearly shouts and pushes his hand into his pocket in search for his written notes. 

Geralt clears his throat loudly to catch his attention. 

"Could I say mine first?" 

The truth is, Geralt didn't prepare any vows. He tried to think of something to say, to find any words that would spell out the feeling of bliss he felt when they sat around a campfire in the woods at night, Jaskier, accompanied by wild crickets and his lute, softly singing to the moon, while the fire's sparks flew up towards the sky and tried to become stars even though the most beautiful twinkle was the glint in the bards eyes. Just thinking about the casual way his lover brought perfection into his life, Geralt's heart felt like it was squished in a vice and something heavy was sitting on his chest, preventing him from breathing properly. His mouth goes dry as he wonders how he could let this sound like the good thing that it is. 

But if the poet went first, Geralt wouldn't be able to say anything at all, stunned by the emotional weight and beauty of his words. No, it was better to say his part now, than to bring his disappointing speech after Jaskier's heartfelt pledge of eternal love. 

"Sure, you can go first," Jaskier agrees delightly, turns his full body towards his love and grabs for his hands to hold. 

The earnest adoration in his eyes closes off Geralt's throat, but he looks for the courage within himself that helps him to confront monsters twice as big as him and uses it to power through. 

"I am not a child of change, not by nature. You do that. You brought the change with you when you came into my life and now no day feels like the one before. I didn’t think that would be a good thing, because monotony and predictability keeps you alive, but you changed my mind. You changed my life. I will forever be thankful for that. And for teaching me how to love you. That is something else I didn’t think was possible. That I would ever love someone as much as I love you.”

He wets his dry lips and looks between Jaskier and the registrar, unsure how long a vow is supposed to be.

“That’s about it,” he states and feels relief when Jaskier presses his hands reassuringly and gives him a quick, firm kiss. 

The registrar protests good-naturedly. 

“I didn’t allow you to do that, yet. Julian, please say your vows now.” 

His smile finally falters and his eyes grow big as he watches Jaskier pulling out and unfolding various sheets of parchment fully covered with a tiny scribble. Geralt wonders when the bard had found the time to write all of that down.

“I don’t think we have time to hear all of that,” the bald man utters as politely as possible. 

At Jaskier’s crestfallen face, Geralt puts his hand on his arm. 

“How about you give me a summary for now and read the whole thing to me later?”

The bard sighs, but relents, shifts his seat closer to Geralt and then points out the different paragraphs for him. 

“I love you, I love your eyes, I love your hair, I love your teeth, I love that scar on the inside of your thigh, because you used to be weirdly protective about it, but by now you don’t even twitch when I touch it.”

Geralt was pragmatic about the whole registered marriage thing, but now he can feel his ears heating up and the increased blinking of his eyes, caused by the moisture gathering there. Jaskier shuffles the papers in his hands and doesn’t notice the state he is in.

“I love your protectiveness, that you allow yourself to be weak with me, your dark humor, your honesty, your big heart that you’re guarding so fiercely and how devoted you are once you allow yourself to care. This part here is about Roach. Looking forward to being with you for as long as fate allows me to stay by your side and, rounding it up, death won’t stop me from loving you. I thought about add-lipping a part about last night, but I guess it is probably better to keep that between us,” he finishes and looks up from his notes. 

Surprise colours his face as he sees Geralt’s tense expression, which swiftly softens into a besotted gaze. 

“Aw, my love.” He places one hand on his witcher’s cheek and strokes his thumb beneath his eye where definitely no single tear has escaped. 

“Don’t cry. If you cry, I’ll cry and putting on all that make up will have been for naught.” 

Their moment is gently broken when the registrar coughs slightly.

“It’s time to exchange the rings.” 

Jaskier turns to him with a grimace and vaguely waves his hands around. 

“We don’t have them yet.”

“Maybe you could exchange something else? If only for the gesture?” the man ponders after some quiet thinking. 

“I guess,” Jaskier hums and pads down his pockets, before he perks up with a sudden idea. He bends over and pulls a small knife with a fine blade out of his shoe. Geralt recognizes it as the one he usually skins their freshly caught dinner with. 

“Yet, you didn’t allow me to bring my sword,” the witcher comments drily. 

“Because it’s bad manners, now shush. With this knife I promise to love you and protect you until the end of our days.” 

Geralt takes the offered item with pursed lips, not knowing where to safely put it. His ears prick up as he hears a faint tumult down the hallway, but he is distracted when the registrar demands his attention. 

“It’s your turn to give something.”

“I don’t have anything,” he replies and hopes that they can just skip this part. 

Unfortunately, the clerk doesn’t let the matter rest.

“How about your medaillon?” 

The witcher frowns at the man, depicting with his whole straining body how awful that idea is, but the registrar holds his stare with an expectant smile. 

He feels a poke at his side and looks over to see Jaskier wiggle his nose at him to tell him to just get it over with. 

Reluctantly, he pulls the necklace over his head and lets it drop into Jaskier’s waiting palm. 

“With this pendant I promise to love you and protect you until the end of our days,” he grunts the line. 

Jaskier puts it on and then leans over to whisper at him apologetically. 

"I'll give it back to you later. What is it?" he asks as he notices Geralt holding his head to the side and listening intently. 

"Someone's yelling and they're coming closer."

As if to emphasise his words, a door is slammed loudly. 

"Probably a disgruntled citizen. They tend to get a little rowdy, but don't worry, the guards will surely take care of it," the registrar soothes the pair and brings their attention back to the proceedings. He turns the leathern book towards them and points at the bottom of the side he has been filling out. "You'll just have to sign here and then I can proclaim you as married."

There is a sudden loud bang just down the hall, someone yells, a lot of feets shuffle and he can hear people arguing. 

Geralt is out of his seat in an instant. 

"And you didn't want me to bring my sword," he snaps at Jaskier who jumps up, too. 

"I just gave you a knife." 

"You gave me a toothpick! What should I do with it if the person who hired Yennefer found another mage to strike against you?" 

"How is this my fault?" Jaskier yells back, his arms thrown up in a frenzy. 

"I don't know  _ yet _ . Now, is it a mage?" 

"How the fuck should I know?" 

The commotion has already moved closer, the door in the next room slams open and Geralt can hear someone loudly shouting his objections. 

"The pendant," Geralt states, pointing the hand that isn't holding the knife at Jaskier's chest. 

"Oh, right!" He tightly grips the wolf pendant and furrows his forehead in concentration. "Nope, it's silent."

The door bursts open and a loud "Objection!" resounds through the room. 

Geralt harrumphs and lowers the knife as Valdo Marx storm inside with a flourish. 

"This man can not get married," he proclaims, pointing at Jaskier, who just stands there with his mouth dropped open. "For he doesn't love the witcher, he loves me!" 

"I do not!" Jaskier shouts back, even going so far as to stomp his foot. 

"He does not," Geralt replies more calmly. "I do." 

Three shocked faces turn to him, but he doesn't give their inquiries any mind and keeps his focus on Valdo. 

"I don't know how it happened, but I can't think about anything but you. You have enchanted me, body and soul." 

"That's not what I wanted," Valdo stutters as the same time as Jaskier calls out his name in disbelief. "That fucking mage, Jaskier was supposed to fall in love with me." 

Enjoying the bards anger, Geralt goes for the knockout and, with a straight face, goes down on one knee. 

"Valdo Marx," he pleads and grasps for the man's hand. "Will you marry me?" 

"Valdo, you vile creature!" Jaskier screams like a banshee and the registrar's ink pot flies past his rival's head and and shatter into a thousand pieces against the door frame, making it rain blue ink. "What did you do to my fiancé?" 

Valdo pulls his hand out of Geralt's tight grip. 

"You're not worth it anyway," he declares and spits on the ground at Jaskier's feet. 

"I'll kill you!" Geralt's bard shrieks and picks up the knife from where the witcher has dropped it to the floor. Omitting a feral roar, he charges at the other bard. 

Panicking, Valdo hurries out of the room and yells for the guards as he flees down the corridor. 

Jaskier comes to a dead end right inside the door frame, glass crunches beneath his shoes. He watches Valdo's retreat until the man has run past a corner, then steps back into the room and closes firmly the door. 

"Told you he still wants me," he remarks. 

The witcher stands up and purses his lips. 

"Seems like Yenn didn't inform her client about not executing the spell after all. Who would have guessed that Valdo Marx pays for a love spell to use on you." 

Glaring at his witcher, Jaskier raises his hand so high, he stands on the tip of his toes. 

Geralt pushes one finger against his shoulder and successfully tips him off his balance, causing him to stumble backwards. 

"Let's just sign and get this done before any more exes turn up and try to sabotage our union." 

But as they turn to the desk, the registrar is ripping the freshly filled page out of the book. 

"Never in my thirty-six years of performing official weddings have I ever been witness to such a disrespect for the institution of marriage." 

He crumples the page between shaking hands, while Jaskier wails out his grievance. 

"Nooo!" 

"Listen," Geralt begins angrily, but just in that moment the door is pushed open again and a group of four guards marches inside. 

"Remove these brutes!" the registrar orders them. 

Holding up his hands, Geralt walks out on his own. Jaskier only moves with the constant pushing from the weaponed soldiers, but not without loud protest. 

Back in their accommodations at the university, they pack their bags in depressed silence. 

Geralt used to like it like this, enjoyed few things as much as blessed silence. But after years of having Jaskier at his side, the too long absence of noise puts him on edge. 

"We don't have to get married," he breaks the unpleasant quiet. 

"Okay," Jaskier says muted and stuffs the last of his things into his bag instead of neatly bundling it up. He shoulders the duffel with one hand and takes off Geralt's pendant with the other. 

Not speaking another word, he pushes the necklace into the witcher's hand and walks out. 

"Where are you going?" Geralt shouts after him too loudly. It sounds angry, but he can't help himself. He is panicking and his default reaction to panic is anger. 

"On a walk," the bard has enough patience to answer. "I need to think. I'll meet you in the next town." 

Geralt takes a deep breath. All the irrational emotions he knows he doesn't feel for the bard, the rage and the chagrin, he shuts them off, or at least he tries to. He reminds himself that he wants this and that he has to work for this even though Jaskier denies to pull his own weight right now. He will have to bear the full load and take the steps for both of them, just like his love has done for them so many times before. 

In a rush, he gathers the rest of his things and then jogs after Jaskier. 

He doesn't have to run far, for the bard stands in the courtyard, saying his goodbye to the dean. His smile is strained as he cracks a joke that has the older man laughing out loud. 

His eyes are drawn to the witcher on their own accord and he swiftly bids his farewell, before starting to walk in an easy to catch up with step. 

They pass the university's gate and walk through the streets that Jaskier had enthusiastically shown his love a day prior. They even fetch Roach from the stables before the bard finds something worthy to be said. 

"If you had told me earlier that you don't want to be married to me, we could have skipped this whole escapade." 

Annoyed with his own inability to phrase things correctly, Geralt sighs. 

"I didn't mean that I don't want to be married to you, it's the documents that don't matter to me." He licks his lips, feeling the words jamming his throat and the need to push them all out before he chokes on them. "I already think of you as my husband, I don't need a ring or a signature to know that you're mine and I'm yours."

The mare neighs next to them, happy to be among acquaintances and to stretch her legs again.

"Do you mean it?" Jaskier mutters, his fast blinking eyes fixed to the side of the witcher's face.

"It is no difference to me if we had married this morning or if we will marry fifty years from now, my vow still stands," Geralt presses. 

"I'll be fat and wrinkled."

"And I'll be even more brooding and less articulate," he assures his love.

Jaskier tentatively smiles. 

"I doubt that. You're getting much better at telling me what you want." 

"And I pretended to be in love with that dick Valdo Marx for you," he dead-pans, finally eliciting a cheerful snort from the bard. 

"That is the greatest act of devotion," he agrees, takes Geralt's hand and leads him through the city gate out of Oxenfurt. 

"New town, new wedding, new luck?" he asks his witcher hopefully. 

"New town, new wedding," Geralt agrees. "No need for luck." 

He squeezes his bard's hand and looks forward to their journey.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Jaskier hums (In Battle, in Bed and in Love) is about a witcher's heartbeat speeding up when he fights, has sex or is in love
> 
> You can find the lyrics here:
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/23789725


End file.
